


five times the ghost hunting trio goofed up (and one time when they didn't)

by tea_leaf_reader



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Ghost Hunters, Gen, Ghost Hunters, It's the dream team as ghost hunters y'all!, Mild Blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-21 20:19:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14922173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tea_leaf_reader/pseuds/tea_leaf_reader
Summary: Wirt, Sara, and Jason look for ghosts in their spare time, and most of the time things don't go according to plan, but occasionally they do, and that makes it all worth it.





	1. A House of Horrors

_An old farmhouse in Amherst, Massachusetts, May 4th, 1985._

Everything was shaking, the decaying walls, the cracked windowpanes, even the whole of the homestead’s foundation was shuddering, convulsing like some great and terrible beast had been awoken and wasn’t too pleased about it.

And because it was so unbelievably terrifying, it only made sense that Greg wouldn’t be scared of it in the slightest.  _Sometimes_ , Wirt thought to himself as he dodged cupboard doors that were opening and closing at an alarmingly fast pace and ducked to avoid the splintered glass from a shattered light bulb,  _sometimes I really do wonder what’s going through that head of his_.

“Whoa, the building’s dancing!” Came the conjecture, a hushed whisper of awe, of reverence, of naivete from the mouth of an eight-year-old boy, an eight-year-old boy who, unbeknownst to him, was about to be crushed by a baby grand piano that was currently being hurtled at him from across the other side of the room.

“Greg, MOVE!” Wirt roared, slamming into the child from the side just as the rogue instrument collided with the drywall, narrowly missing them both in the process.

“Guys, we’ve got to get out of here!” Jason’s voice was an octave higher than normal.

“Yeah, you  _think_?!” Wirt grumbled, a pang of irritation flaring up amidst the ocean of horror that was threatening to pull him down, down, down into its icy depths.

“Guys, I found the exit! Follow me!” Sara, ever the leader, always the one with the plan, took a hold of the reigns.

Somehow, someway, they made it out of that house, spluttering and shaking off bits of debris and clouds of dust that had accumulated, clinging to their clothes.

From the interior of the farmhouse, a single note from the piano sounded, then all was silent.


	2. A Forest of Dolls

_Myles Standish State Forest around Plymouth/Carver, Massachusetts, June 8th, 1986._

“I  _really_  don’t like this.” Jason whined, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he frowned. His grip on their one and only flashlight tightened as he gulped, shuffling along the poorly-lit pathway that stretched on in front of them.

“For once, it seems that you and I are on the same page. I think this investigation has officially entered the area of being a little too, uh,  _weird_  for me. How’re you holding up, Wirt?”

 _I’m…I guess I’m fine._  It was like the buzz of white noise, the rustling of autumn leaves, a faint sound that they heard echo in their minds, ripples from a rock skipped across the surface of a no-longer-stilled lake. _Okay, actually, no, I’m not fine, but I sort of have to be, don’t I? I mean, I have to be until we can fix this, right?_

“…Yeah, I guess so.” Sara mused after a moment of silence, her gaze finally flicking down to take in the porcelain clown doll that was nestled in her hands, the same porcelain clown doll that was presently acting as a housing unit for Wirt’s…Wirt’s soul? His essence? Truthfully, she didn’t quite know – she’d have to sort that out later.

“You know, I’m really sorry about this. If I had known that this was going to, um, happen, I never would have asked you to try to channel any spirits tonight.”

_It’s all right. I don’t think any of us thought that this was going to happen. Besides, it’s not like you pinned my arms behind my back and demanded that I try to commune with the ghosts – erm, spirits – whatever is in this forest._

“If that was the case, I would’ve picked a better trigger object to bring.”

That earned a snicker from Wirt. Granted, it was a touch hollow, but a snicker was a snicker nonetheless, and she counted that as a win.  _I don’t doubt it one bit._

“Something cool, something like a Stretch Armstrong action figure.”

_Oh, gosh, no, anything but Stretch Armstrong! I’d be too powerful then!_

She couldn’t help but chuckle at that, her laugh carrying in the late evening air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative chapter title: The gang tries something new and, as things sometimes do, it goes horribly awry. Anyways, I wanted to mention that all of the chapters will be taking place during a different year (starting in 1985 and ending in 1990) and that the trio will all be a different age in each chapter (starting at sixteen/turning sixteen in the first chapter and ending at twenty-one/turning twenty-one in the final chapter). Also, why 1985? I personally headcanon the series as taking place on Halloween night of 1984, so that's why (though that is in no way canon). Part three will be coming in a while from now (as will the rest of the parts), but I thought I'd kick the story off by posting the first two parts relatively close together.


	3. A Bridge's Battle

_Old Alton Bridge around Denton County, Texas, July 10th, 1987._

“Hey! Hey, you pussy-footed, lily-livered fuckface, paws off my friends!”

With an inhuman growl, the creature twisted around to glare at Sara, his slanted eyes locking in on the warmth of her body, her face full of its brittle, breakable bones, the furious, somehow defiant expression she was wearing, a mask fit for a warrior. The Goatman took a step forward, unkempt coat and glossy hooves shifting in the gossamer strands of moonlight, before he charged, throwing both of the boys aside as he pursued his new target, his latest prey, his next kill.

Because Wirt and Jason had been flung so spectacularly and had both had the incredible misfortune of striking the support beams keeping the bridge aloft, neither of them could ever really say what happened between Sara and the infamous demon, but once the scuffling ceased and the dust settled and the dull ache that had found a home in Wirt’s bruised backside and in Jason’s throbbing temple stopped, what stood before them was a clear victor, covered in spatters of blood as black as a pool of ink, a single, gnarled horn grasped in her hand.

“Well, that was fun, wasn’t it?” Sara said, a hint of wryness lacing her tone.

“Are you okay?!” Wirt asked, attempting to force his jelly-like legs to stand, to move, to go to his girlfriend to ensure that she was safe, to do something, anything at all.

“Yeah, I’m good, just a little winded.” She peered down, wincing at the splotches of crimson staining her sweatshirt, the tell-tale signs of some half-hidden injury. Oh, if she ever had the displeasure of coming across his ugly mug again, he’d pay for ruining her Christmas present like that, mark her words. “Mm, maybe not. Looks like he landed a few gashes, but I don’t think it’s anything too serious.”

“Gashes?! Sara, we–”

“–need to go home. Come on, guys, let’s get out of here before that shit stain decides he wants to try to get revenge on us for having his ass handed to him.”

It only took four days, twenty-two stitches, and an incalculable amount of time spent fretting and fidgeting and fussing before Wirt and Jason realized that that was the first time they’d ever heard Sara curse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it realistic for three eighteen-year-olds to travel all the way to Texas from Massachusetts, a journey that would take more than two days in drive time alone? No? Who cares! Anyways, this chapter was definitely written as a bit of a homage to one of my favorite BuzzFeed Unsolved: Supernatural episodes (specifically "The Demonic Goatman's Bridge" if anyone is curious and/or wants to check it out sometime), and honestly? I just really wanted Sara to go toe-to-toe with the Goatman, so there's that. Perhaps she's the official owner of his bridge now.


	4. A Rushed Reunion

_Old Burying Point Cemetery in Salem, Massachusetts, December 21st, 1988._

There was darkness, all-consuming, and then a burst of bright, blinding light, and suddenly Wirt found himself surrounded by cluster upon cluster of cornflowers and face-to-face with someone he never actually thought he’d see again, not for a long time anyways.

“Wirt!” Lorna cried, sprinting towards him before enfolding him in a tight embrace. “I  _knew_  I felt your presence nearby! Auntie told me that my intuition may be misguided, but I’d secretly hoped that she was mistaken. Oh, my, just look at how you’ve grown! Well, metaphorically speaking.” She cast him a bashful smile, giggling only as he sighed fondly, cheeks reddening at her comment. Out of the numerous changes that he’d undergone since returning from the Unknown, an increase in height had, unfortunately, not been one of them.

“Thanks. And yeah, it’s been a while. Four years in fact. Is…Is that how long it’s been for you, too?” Was that okay to ask her? Come to think of it, did she even know that she was–

Lorna tilted her head to the side as if mulling it over. “Auntie and I don’t keep track of time besides the passing of the seasons. It’s easier that way. Pray, how long do you suppose we have to be in one another’s company, Wirt? I fear it’s not as long as either of us would like.” Her eyebrows came together in sadness.

“I–” Before he could respond, his form flickered once, twice, and he let out an involuntary grunt as the invisible yet tangible weight of the veil abruptly became more of a burden on his shoulders, a thick drape that he was struggling to keep hoisted. “I don’t think we have long.” He turned to Lorna again, fully drinking in the sparkle of her dark irises, her reserved grin, the flush of pink coloring her otherwise pale skin. She looked so healthy, much healthier than when he and Greg had last seen her, and that was more than enough to put his mind at ease.

“I’ll bring scones next time, scones with my blackberry preserves on them, and tea as well.”

“What kind of tea?”

“Rose hip, or catmint, or–or whatever suits your fancy really. I certainly have enough plants that can be made into tea. I’ve been, erm, growing them in my garden.”

“All of those sound delicious, Lorna.”

“So you’ll return?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then it’s settled. Scones, preserves, and tea.” She nodded firmly, and Wirt chuckled.

The fact there was going to be a next time, the fact that there  _could_  be a next time, made Wirt’s heart feel like it was fit to burst with complete joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look, a familiar face! Anyhow, although I've been pretty consistent at keeping these chapters within the 300 to 400 range when it comes to my final word count, I decided to bend the rules I'd set for myself at the start and go over a bit on this one in order to do it justice, and I'm very pleased with the end result. I've actually been wanting to write a reunion between Wirt and Lorna for a while now, but never could quite find the right opportunity to do so until I thought hey, what better to have them reunite in the Unknown (or, well, more like a liminal space between the Unknown and the living realm) when Wirt and the gang are visiting her grave in Salem over their winter break? It's perfect!


	5. A Squeaky Surprise

_A forest around Point Pleasant, West Virginia, August 5th, 1989._

“Wirt! Wirt, don’t panic! We’re going to get you down, okay? We’re going to get you down!”

“I would hope so, Funderberker!” Wirt shouted, a sneer working its way on to his face as the words crystallized in the ever-thinning air, sharp and abrasive and with an undeniably bitter edge to them. Of course he knew that this predicament wasn’t Jason’s fault, but he couldn’t help but want to pin the blame on someone and, well, his friend had always been an easy target for his grievances, personal or not. And it was not like he’d have necessarily  _wanted_  the Mothman to swoop down and snatch up the poor boy, but he was a big enough person to admit that the mental image did make him smile.

Maybe there  _was_  some truth to the saying “old habits die hard”, but he’d have to ruminate on that later when he wasn’t, you know, in the clutches of a cryptid.

Above him, the Mothman squeaked, a surprisingly docile sound, before swiveling its head around and around again as if scanning its surroundings for something, a place to land perhaps, but Wirt sensed with a sullen kind of certainty that they probably wouldn’t be that lucky. Its antennae were twitching wildly, moving to and fro like stalks of golden wheat swaying in an open field, and it was in that moment when Wirt realized the creature’s hold on him was most definitely slipping, but it was rather too late to really do anything about it except for scream and pray that the pine trees would break his inevitable fall.

He tumbled, and suddenly he was plummeting, much, much too quickly for his liking. His limbs flailed about in every conceivable direction as he tried to figure out how he was going to survive this without being confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his days. After all, spinal cords are supposed to stay  _inside_  of the body, weren’t they?

Without warning, he felt a pair of talons dig into his shoulder blades, the shriek that had been lodged in his throat dissipating as he hissed in pain, flinching only when the claws were thrust in even further, and the trickle of blood became a stream.

“Deep breaths! Deep, calming breaths! You’re doing great!”

It was going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I eluded to the Great Mothman Incident of '89 in a post on my Tumblr blog as being one of the most memorable/most formative experiences of Wirt's young adult life in terms of the whole ghost hunting (cryptid hunting?) portion of it, so of course I HAD to write that adventure out or, well, at least a part of it. Like the Goatman, the Mothman is another one of the greats, so I just couldn't let him slide by, could I? Besides, this is a good precursor to the next (and last!) chapter which is a little heavier than this one, but trust me, you'll want to stick around to check it out.


	6. A Longed-For Leaving

_Gore Orphanage around Lorain County, Ohio, October 28th, 1990._

“You ready?” Sara questioned, issuing a gentle squeeze to her boyfriend’s hand.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” Wirt confirmed, bobbing his head almost imperceptibly.

“No use in waiting around any longer then, is there? Go get ‘em, tiger.” With the elegance and haste of a ravenous wolf closing in on a wounded doe, she leaned forward, kissed his lips, and stepped back into the shadows as his ears began to burn, tittering all the while. “Sorry, sorry! I know you have to concentrate, but the opportunity was too good to pass up. Besides, you look great in flannel.” Sara winked, and Wirt couldn’t help but feel like he was fifteen again, standing amidst the hustle-and-bustle of a Halloween party he wasn’t invited to, chatting with the most amazing girl that he was certain he had no chance with as that no-good Jason Funderberker was going to swoop in and take her away at any second.

Funny how things worked out, wasn’t it?

“Ew, gross. You lovebirds should get a room next time.”

“Shut up, Jason.”

“Yeah, like  _you’re_  one to talk.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean. Now, seriously, hush. Wirt needs to focus.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

The air of carefree joviality lessened degree by degree until a somber shroud had fallen over the three teenagers, cloaking them in impalpable darkness. It was cold, much colder than it should be for late October, and the instant that Wirt saw his breath begin to fashion clouds of condensation in front of him, he knew that it was time.

Ever so slowly, he started to disentangle himself from his physical body, envisioning tiny stitches being undone by a steadied hand as he did so, separating what should probably not be separated. It was difficult, and the veil dividing his realm from the realm of the Unknown still wasn’t the easiest of barriers to bridge, but it was something one became accustomed to, and it was important that they do this, that  _he_  do this, so he pressed on, his teeth grinding together.

He was floating, weightless, nearly incorporeal save for the silver strand of thread that was connecting him to his motionless form. How that worked he wasn’t completely sure, and occasionally he wondered in his more private moments what would happen if he purposely severed that attachment between himself and, well, himself. 

As tempting as it sometimes was, he was never brave enough nor stupid enough to try.

A giggle sounded, and his eyes snapped open.

There were eleven children in total, five girls, six boys, all of different ages. They watched him curiously, their soot-smudged faces craning up to better see the elusive stranger as he hovered above them, gradually descending bit by painstaking bit. As he got closer to the ground, Wirt noticed how filthy they were, bedecked in clothing that was covered in cinders and singed at the seams, a testament to their unfortunate and highly suspect demise. They were barefoot as well, their feet stained black from countless hours spent without shoes.

One child held a spinning top, another a ball. It was as if they’d spent years at play.

Wirt touched down, shivering both from the lack of warmth that he’d come to associate with being in this astral state and the multitude of eyes that were trained on him, taking in his every movement with tentative hope.

“Hey, guys, um, guys and gals. My name is Wirt and I’m here to, uh, I’m here to help you guys cross over. Yeah, that’s what I’m here to do. Does…does that sound good?” He cleared his throat, offering a hand to whoever would take it.

There was a beat of silence before a girl, one of the youngest of the group, stepped forward, and Wirt’s heart lurched at the mere sight of her. She couldn’t be more than eight, yet here she was, confined to this orphanage, unable to leave its grounds.

She shuffled forward and finally,  _finally_ , grabbed a hold of his hand, shaking it.

“I’m Maizey. It’s nice to meet you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I've had a blast writing this, all good things must come to an end, and I'm afraid to say that the end of this story has come with the arrival of this chapter. This one's interesting for a couple of reasons. First, I decided to delve into the history (or should I say urban myth?) of the Gore Orphanage where legend says that some unknown assailant burnt the building to the ground while the orphans were still inside, and if visit the plot of land where this supposedly happened? You could see children darting in and out of the forest, or perhaps they might appear to you as if on fire and call for you to help them, or maybe you'll return to your parked car to find child-sized hand prints on it...
> 
> Spooky, huh?
> 
> Anyways, the second reason that this chapter is interesting is because, unlike the other chapters leading up to this one, I actually went into what Wirt can do that the others can't because of his stint in the Unknown (and yes, I did touch on it a bit when he visited Lorna, but not much). I thought it'd be ironic if Wirt became a guider of lost souls since he himself was once a lost soul, and I finally got to showcase that by having him encounter these earth-bound spirits and, with a little luck, helping them move on to someplace better. It's what they deserve.

**Author's Note:**

> Being as that I'm both a fan of Over the Garden Wall and BuzzFeed Unsolved, it was only a matter of time before I created a bit of a crossover between the two, and thus the OtGW Ghost Hunters AU was born. So, enjoy, and I promise that any and all later chapters won't involve Greg nearly dying via baby grand piano.


End file.
